When I behold thee, blameless Williamson,
Wrecked like an infant on a savage shore,
While others round on borrowed pinions soar,
My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun;
Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun, 5
While thus she speaks,—‘Those wings that from the store
Of virtue were not lent, howe’er they bore
In this gross air, will melt when near the sun.
The truly’ ambitious wait for nature’s time,
Content by certain, though by slow, degrees 10